This person—this Jonathan Wild, whom I beheld for the first time, scarcely an hour ago, in Wych Street, is—I know not why—my enemy. She gulped for air merely, for it had been difficult to breathe with his hand almost cutting off the supply to her lungs. Heedless, however, of the consequences, he pursued his task. But I'll tell you about him some other time. Instead her point disengaged, dropped, and then the sword came up again and banged, flatbladed, onto Gosse’s wrist with such force that his own blade dropped from his grasp.
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